The air in the dressing room was thick with the scent of sweat, liniment, and the raw, unyielding pressure of a Champions League night.
The halftime break was less a rest and more a crucible. Jürgen Klopp, his eyes blazing with an intensity that could melt steel, paced the room. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. His presence was a sermon, his silence a demand.
Mateo sat on the bench, his head bowed, his mind a whirlwind of data. The System was screaming at him: Physical Strain: Critical. Micro-Tears Detected. Risk of Injury: High.
But the data was just noise. He felt the throbbing in his shin, the ache in his lungs, the heavy weight of the first half's tactical grind. He looked up, his eyes meeting Klopp's across the room.
